


Comfort to Give

by ibi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, M/M, Poor Planning, Restraints, Subdrop, also implied - Freeform, i'd like to clarify, implied - Freeform, or rather aftermath thereof, this is 6000 words of cuddling with a dash of awkward and a side of supportive friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibi/pseuds/ibi
Summary: Lavellan and Bull should have made sure they weren't out of ointment before playing. Bull should have locked the door behind him after running out to get some. And Cullen should have knocked.Or: Cullen learns something about the Inquisitor, learns something about himself (but mostly learns to knock): an Aftercare Story





	Comfort to Give

**Author's Note:**

> This is the same Inquisitor as in my other DA:I story, but this one isn't an AU. I feel unfortunately sure that I'm missing a tag somewhere.... Anyway, see end notes for more thorough explanation of the tags I did use.
> 
> Indulgent aftercare fic interrupted by awkward Rutherford.
> 
> Title is from the Chant of Light, because that's how you name Cullen fics, you pick a verse from the Chant.

By now, everyone at Skyhold knows _not_ to go up to the Inquisitor’s quarters while the Iron Bull is alone with him. It’s just good sense, and, honestly, Cullen only had to walk in on them the _once_ (a sight he will surely never unsee and which left him with questions he would be mortified to actually ask) to become overly cautious, knocking on walls to announce his presence at every corner.

At all other times, however, Lavellan’s door is open, and he _does_ tend to be in a fantastic mood after spending time with the Bull, so when Cullen steps out into the great hall to see the Qunari closing the Inquisitor’s door behind him and hurrying across to the rotunda, he thinks nothing of it except to appreciate the excellent timing. Lavellan hates paperwork, so it’s always best to catch him in a good mood, if possible, when Cullen has… questions about his reports. And he’s been dying to figure out what the mage meant by, “Fought Venatori under Andraste’s titcicles.”

The staircase leading up to the Inquisitor’s tower chambers is in its usual state of shambling disrepair, but Cullen has taken countless trips up to the Inquisitor’s room, and it’s second nature by now to avoid the weak steps and the rubble.

It hasn’t always been business to draw him up to the tower, though he does frequently find himself continuing discussions begun around the war table while seated on the Inquisitor’s couch and not altogether certain how he came to be there. Just as often he is invited to spend a rare evening of recreation with Lavellan and whoever else of the inner circle has the time and the inclination--usually Bull and Dorian, Varric and Cassandra almost as often, and Josephine whenever she can spare a moment, though the others rotate in and out as they will.

Cullen is not a man who has ever had an easy time of… _connecting_ with his peers. Even among the templars, as a recruit he was too earnest, and after Kinloch he was the Sole Survivor, spoken of in whispers, primarily behind his back, until being reassigned to Kirkwall felt like a mercy. And then at the Gallows… Meredith’s machinations, recognized far too late, had him rocketing up the ranks too quickly to make any friends, if friendships were even possible in that hellish place. He hadn’t endeared himself to anyone with his zealotry, and those who _had_ seen a likely ally in him he had quickly grown sickened by.

So, he treasures those nights of easy comradery. After the first time, as if recognizing that Cullen was still ill at ease and attempting to rectify, a chess set had appeared at the corner of the Inquisitor’s desk and he’d casually asked Cullen for tips. “I want to kick Solas’s ass the next time we’re in camp together,” he’d said simply, and after that impromptu chess tournaments had been commonplace. Cullen tutors on strategy and Dorian tutors on how to cheat and Bull gives tips on either side as whim strikes him.

He’s thinking of the last chess night, just the four of them, himself, Dorian, the Inquisitor and Bull, any others long since tripped off to their own beds, Cullen fighting against giggles as Dorian, straight-faced, attempted to convince them of some “obscure Tevinter rule” that allows him to have a tower piece leap across the board. He had taken a sip of wine to cover his amusement (Dorian seemed to like playing off the straight-laced Commander, and Cullen enjoyed indulging him, feigning a more stern countenance while mirth warmed his belly) and chanced to glance over to where the Bull and the Inquisitor sat together.

Lavellan, sleepy and comfortable in friendly company, was draped half over the Bull’s lap, and the big qunari supported his slender weight with thoughtless ease, one broad hand stroking the elf’s back in an absent minded sort of way that suggested a long-established habit.

They had been… oddly beautiful together, Lavellan long and lean, burnished gold in the low light from the fire, the Iron Bull huge and bulky, the hard lines of his scars and his horns softened into silvery satin shadows. As Cullen watched, Bull bent his head and murmured something into Lavellan’s ear, too low to hear beyond the indistinct rumble of his voice, and Cullen had felt a shiver as whatever was said brought a slight, pleased smile to Lavellan’s plush lips, his green eyes gleaming.

Blushing, and not sure why, Cullen had quickly looked away, only to find himself caught in Dorian’s gaze. The mage had merely raised an eyebrow, but there was nothing mocking in his expression, only… gentle amusement and _understanding_ that Cullen hadn’t the skill or social grace to suss out. Instead he’d changed the subject by accusing the mage of moving his pawns again, and Lavellan had laughed and lightly slapped the Bull’s thigh with a triumphant crow of, “I told you he would notice.”

So Cullen is thinking of the warm amusement he’d seen in the Bull’s eye as he conceded that the commander was more observant than he’d thought, and he’s thinking of the reports he carries, and of how he might casually suggest another chess night to the Inquisitor once he signs off on them, as he gives the door to Lavellan’s chamber a perfunctory knock and ascends the final stair.

“Inquisitor, if you have a moment,” Cullen begins, but then the words trail off as his head clears that rail and he looks over. To the bed….

That the Iron Bull is into… _heavier_ play isn’t exactly a secret. Cullen tries to distance himself from that sort of ribald tavern talk, but people _do_ talk, and before settling into whatever arrangement he has with Lavellan, Bull had been the center of a whirlwind of gossip (where he had mostly sat as if reclined on a throne, to be honest). Everyone wanted to _‘ride the Bull’_ and then compare notes and not even Cullen’s sternest, most mirthless Commander face could keep _all_ the gossip from reaching his ears.

Whips and chains had entered the conversation, alongside awed if obvious whispers about _size_. “He can tie me down any time,” one barmaid had said with a wistful sort of longing, when honestly Cullen had only wanted to ask about his lunch.

It’s the sort of detail one tries not to acknowledge knowing about a friend, something Cullen _knew_ , in a manner of speaking, but never gave any _thought_ . That such activities might continue once the Bull and the Inquisitor became more or less exclusive to one another… the thought had never occured. He had only ever… walked in on them the once, _after_ , since Lavellan had already been dressed. Bull, reclining distractingly naked on his bed had put the _size_ question (if there had ever _been_ any question) well to rest, but as for the rest, there had been no sign, no hint, nothing at all.

The Inquisitor hardly seems the sort, always so proud and so commanding. As a mage, Cullen has rarely seen his equal, his control and mastery awe inspiring, even to a former templar. In the field, before the Inquisition forces and her allies, even amid the glittering dangers of the Orlesian court he seems a man made out of pure steel, to their enemies he is unbending, unyielding, indomitable.

Hard to remember, now, how he had first dropped into their lives, blown in through a hole in the sky, young and confused, grasping at a stolen staff and lashing out waspishly in fear and anger at Cassandra’s questions and the horrors he was so swiftly thrown against; abruptly cut off from his own people, thrust into the position of ‘Herald’ quite against his will, and floundering, as they all were in those early days at Haven, to find any direction in the storm of the world.

Lavellan is spread out on the bed, a four-postered monstrocity from the Free Marches with curtains Cullen imagines the Bull must find annoying to maneuver his horns around. He is lying on his front and he hasn’t stirred, hasn’t seemed to notice Cullen’s presence, yet, but from where Cullen is standing (and he can’t seem to stop his legs from carrying himself closer, because he needs to _see_ , needs to be _sure_ ) he can see that the Inquisitor is….

 _Bruised_ seems too light a word, something one might use to describe the aftermath of falling off a horse or a rough melee training session with Cassandra. _Battered_ might be more accurate, or… _ravaged_.

Lavellan’s golden, freckled skin, from buttocks to thighs, is the deep, angry red of a fresh, deep bruise, not yet aged enough to darken to purple-black but headed that way quickly. Staring (because Cullen can’t seem to _stop_ staring) and drifting ever closer, Cullen can pick out… _stripes_ among the bruising. The Inquisitor had been _flogged_ \-- _belted_.

There is a _bite mark_ , a ring of sharp, distinct teeth in a ring around the meat of his shoulder, another on his neck, just barely hidden by the riot of blond curls that tangle around his head like a halo, and trailing a thin drop of bright red blood.

More bruises around his slender wrists where they rest on the pillow next to his head, the culprits obvious in the leather cuffs hanging from the posts--how long had they been there? Had Cullen played chess in this room--sometimes sitting on that very bed for lack of other seats--with handcuffs hanging from the bedposts? How had he never noticed?

He _drank_ with the Iron Bull, sparred with him, spoke with him often, considered him a _friend_ . _How had Cullen never noticed--?_

The papers he was holding flutter to the ground with a soft whisper of pages, and some senseless corner of his mind bemoans that they are now hopelessly out of order. On the bed, Lavellan twitches, as if just beginning to surface, and it is simply too, too much.

“ _Micah_.” The Inquisitor’s first name, freely given yet seldom used, at least by Cullen, escapes from his lips before Cullen makes the conscious decision to speak, colored and thickened with shock and horror.

Lavellan jerks on the bed, attempts to sit up and turn around far too quickly, and then visibly winces as the abrupt movement agitates the bruises that cover him. “Cullen!” he says in surprise, and his voice sounds painfully raw. As if he had screamed. As if he had begged.

Behind Cullen the door bangs open with enough force to hit the wall, then the heavy, only slightly uneven tread of the Bull charging up the stairs.

“I got it, kadan! I’m back, I’m here!”

It’s so easy to forget how quickly the big man can move.

Cullen turns neatly on his heel to put himself firmly between the bed-- _Micah_ \--and the stairs-- _Bull_. Widens his stance. Puts his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Stay low, favor the blind side, focus on the weaker knee.

“ _Cullen!_ ” Lavellan shouts in alarm.

Bull reaches the top of the stairs and freezes, his eye briefly going wide. “...Easy there, big guy,” he says after a moment, his hands slowly raising in supplication. He’s holding something in his hand, a small jar. Ointment. Elfroot for the bruises, maybe. For some reason that just makes Cullen angrier.

“Boss?” Bull calls quietly, though he keeps his eye on Cullen. “You ok, kadan?”

“I’m fine, Bull,” Lavellan answers, and for the moment he certainly sounds it, impatient and commanding, like he’s dealing with an annoying war table operation and trying to decide what orders to give so that they can adjourn and get dinner. “Cullen. It’s alright. Calm down.”

Obeying orders is engrained in Cullen, and Lavellan, finally, is one whose orders he knows he can _trust_ , proven by his actions and his leadership and his commitment to the Inquisition. For a moment, Cullen nearly wavers.

Then Lavellan is betrayed by a creaking of the bedsprings and a breath drawn sharply in pain.

“Kadan,” Bull says, his brow furrowing and his weight shifting as if to move forward.

Cullen tightens his grip on his sword (can’t bring himself to draw it just yet, but he will, he _will_ , if he _must_ ) and says, “Keep your distance.”

Bull refocuses on him with a frown, and he slowly shakes his head though he keeps his hands raised, placatingly visible. “I can’t do that, big guy,” he says. “I fucked up here, I gotta go take care of him.”

“Bull, I’m fine,” Lavellan says. “It was _my_ turn to get new ointment, I should have taken care of it when we ran out last time; I just forgot.”

Bull just shakes his head again. “Cullen,” he said quietly, his voice, so comfortably familiar, pitched low, “I _need_ to take care of him, now. He needs the ointment.”

“You _flogged_ him.” Cullen can’t quite explain the betrayal, the accusation in his own voice. “You… he was restrained, you _flogged_ him.”

Cullen… Cullen has been flogged before. Not as a recruit, though some of the others were, for infractions that Cullen cannot even recall now, fraternization and behavior unbecoming. He remembers the impression it made on him though, the sick fear, the determination that it would _never_ be him, the redoubled pressure to be better than that, to be perfect.

During the uprising at Kinloch, those endless days of trapped torment, the demons had torn into his flesh, or tricked his mind into thinking they had done so only for him to wake and find himself whole… so they could begin all over again.

And then, at Kirkwall….

Meredith told him he deserved it, at first, and then that it was necessary, and he believed her. By the end she’d given away with the pretences, but he’d still gone to her office when she sent for him, still _obeyed_ , damn him, because she was his superior, because he had to, because he couldn’t fail and couldn’t escape the fact that he had, he was.

After he would go to the chapel and kneel before Andraste, present the stripes beaten into his shoulders to the Maker’s Bride (always his back and shoulders, thank the Maker, he doesn’t think he could have borne it had she ever taken it into her head to paddle his ass like a schoolboy), and prayed for absolution.

Bull is… frowning at him, a line of concern between his brows, and Cullen shudders at how _much_ the qunari sees. Ben Hassrath. Observer. Spy.

“Cullen,” Bull says quietly, and takes a tiny step forward.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Cullen takes a defensive step back and begins to pull his sword from its sheath.

Behind him, Lavellan whispers, “For fuck’s sake.” And then the prickle of magic against his skin, the brief flash of the glyph appearing beneath his feet, and then Cullen can’t move.

Immediate instinct, even after all this time, is to Purge, magic used against him raising instant, panicky alarm bells in his mind. He regrets it instantly. The pathways in his brain and body, once brightly gleaming with lyrium, _burn_ with the lack in a way it hasn’t in months. He has never been one of those who didn’t need it to use a templar’s abilities, and Lavellan is no half-trained Circle apprentice. His attempt barely causes a flicker in the glyph. Paralysis doesn’t effect the lungs, yet he’s finding it strangely difficult to breathe.

“Boss,” Bull rumbles disapprovingly. “It’s alright, let him go.”

Lavellan ignores him, his voice deepening to the timbr he uses as the Inquisitor when he issues proclamations or commands, a tone that Cullen reacts to instinctively, snaps to attention for even though he cannot move. “Cullen. Calm down. Bull didn’t do anything to me I didn’t ask for, explicitly. I have a watchword for if things get out of hand, but they never have before, they didn’t this time, and I trust Bull completely to honor it should I ever need to use it. And even if he didn’t, please remember that I am a mage, and that even restrained I am never helpless. I’m going to let you go now. You’re very sweet to defend me, and I appreciate the sentiment, but _do not attack Bull_. Alright?”

The glyph disperses and Cullen… sags without the magic holding him up, and yet still cannot seem to move.

Bull has taken advantage of the magically enforced stillness to edge around him and reach the bed, and the mattress creaks to accept his weight. “Kadan,” he murmurs, a tone and endearment Cullen has heard countless times before, in quiet unguarded moments among friends, or perhaps at times when neither of them were aware of being observed or overheard.

They are private, in a sense, never caring to go hand in hand along the battlements or make goo-goo eyes at each other in the gardens like young lovestruck fools, but at the same time the Inquisitor is shameless in a different sense, never bothering to make a secret of his relationship with Bull and always up front and matter of fact about the subject. They keep their intimacies behind closed doors, and the little moments, the shared looks and casual yet lingering touches, _kadan_ answered with _vhenan_ , Cullen has always felt honored to witness.

Hearing it now makes him shudder.

“Shouldn’t have left you alone up here,” Bull says quietly, remorsefully.

Lavellan counters with, “You _should_ have locked the door behind you.”

Bull sighs and says, “Brat,” part fond and part resigned, and then, more seriously, “How are you feeling. Scale of one to ten, boss.”

“Oh… I’d say I’m… sinking fairly quickly at the moment. Don’t… don’t _leave_ again…?”

There is a… a tremor in Lavellan’s voice, and hearing it, when he is much more accustomed to the Inquisitor’s commanding, steely tones, makes Cullen’s entire chest clench. But he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t feel certain of anything anymore.

“Cullen.” The sound of his own name startles him. He gets the feeling it isn’t the first time Bull has said it, and he finally forces himself to move, to turn and face the bed.

Bull strokes his big hand over Lavellan’s flank, shoulder to hip, and they are turned toward each other but looking at him. Cullen can still see the marks on Lavellan’s flesh as he gingerly kneels up to keep pressure off the worst of them, and he finds himself once again sickly fascinated. He can see now that there are more marks, the bite mark on his neck, previously only glimpsed, seems to be the worst of it, but there are bruises the size and shape of Bull’s fingers around his trim, narrow waist, another shallow indentation of teeth around his nipple.

“You need to sit down, big guy,” Bull says, so kindly, so gently, so completely at odds with the bruises that have been pressed so brutally into his lover’s flesh.

“I should go,” Cullen hears himself say distantly, but he still can’t seem to move.

“You should stay,” Lavellan replies, frowning seriously.

“Boss,” Bull says quietly, and Lavellan briefly turns his frown on the qunari. “Don’t push the guy.”

“I’m not letting him leave while he’s so upset,” Lavellan argues, then turns back to Cullen… and reaches out a hand. “Cullen. Come sit. Come see how well he takes care of me; you’ll feel better.”

What else can Cullen do?

He finds himself gingerly seated on the very edge of the bed, one knee drawn up so that he can still face them. Lavellan holds his hand, and Cullen frowns over the tremble he can feel there. “Micah….”

Lavellan… smiles. “So this is what it takes to call me by my given name,” he teases, and Cullen feels his neck heat in a blush. Lavellan squeezes his fingers, and his smile is… soft and tender. “My Commander, eh?” he says softly, and Cullen flounders.

This is a new intimacy, on top of everything else, and Cullen doesn’t know how to respond or what to _do_.

It is Bull who comes to his rescue, thumbing open the jar of ointment and releasing the sharp scent of elfroot and other strong, healing herbs to tease at Cullen’s nose. He knows the scent well, familiar from years of training and battle and tending to his own bruises so that the healers can focus on the more seriously injured, and he instantly recognizes the ointment as one that will sooth away the damage on Lavellan’s flesh within a matter of hours.

This is the Inquisitor’s own special blend, even more effective than the stuff found in every military and mercenary camp across Thedas, knowledge from his clan now freely shared among the Inquisition.

“Where’d you get it?” Lavellan asks as Bull gently eases him back down until he is spread out once more on his front in a pose nearly identical to the one Cullen first walked in on, though he still maintains a grip on Cullen’s hand.

“Dorian,” Bull answers easily as he dips his fingers into the jar. “He’s going to tease the hell out of us later.”

“Better him than Solas. I can’t take another bloody lecture.” His tremulous voice trails off faintly, and for a while there is nothing but the quiet sounds of Bull smoothing generous amounts of ointment onto Lavellan’s flesh.

Now that Cullen has calmed down from the initial shock, he can see that there is something… careful, about how the welts from the belt are placed. Only in areas with a thick padding of muscle and flesh; places where the skin is thin, or where bone or organs lay close to the surface have been studiously avoided, and there is almost no overlap to the welts, laid out like parallel stripes one after another.

Nothing at all like the frenzy of blows that had torn the flesh from his shoulders--

Lavellan squeezes his fingers again, and Cullen looks down to see the elf watching him, one bright, Fade-green eye through the golden curls that have shifted forward to nearly cover his face. Cullen squeezes back and is surprised to realize that it’s his own hand that has started to shake now.

“I don’t think you’re getting that hand back,” Bull murmurs. “Here. Get his wrist for me.” He hands out the jar of ointment and Cullen takes it dumbly, until Bull gently directs him to the bruises around Lavellan’s wrist from the restraints.

Smoothing the ointment in takes all of Cullen’s concentration, and he frowns over the task, using probably more cream than is necessary to evenly cover every inch. Lavellan sighs and seems to sink further into the mattress.

There had never been anyone to do this for _him_ , too ashamed of the marks to bare them to… _anyone,_ and left to struggle to reach his back himself with a sad little pot of ointment that left the deepest ache, left him standing stiff in his armor for days after with no relief.

Cullen can still not be totally easy, however, discomfort and unsurety swimming in his chest. “You,” he begins hesitantly, then tries again. “He was… restrained…?” He cannot like that, cannot make peace with the idea of Lavellan tied up and helpless--he’s just… he’s so small, compared to Bull, tall for an elf but willowy, and anyone would be, really….

Lavellan makes a grumpy, discontented sound and shifts minutely. “Wanted it,” he insists mulishly. His voice is beginning to slur indistinctly, as if from exhaustion rather than too much drink, and it’s oddly endearing to hear. “Told him to. He has’ta listen to me.”

“You’re the boss,” Bull agrees soothingly, but he’s watching Cullen.

After a moment he seems to decide something and reaches over Lavellan’s prone form to the headboard. Lavellan sighs and goes loosely compliant again as Bull’s body stretches over him, but Bull just strokes his side soothingly as he pulls something out from where the bed curtains had hidden them.

Thick leather straps, butter soft and pliable with broad sturdy buckles. “Brat wouldn’t bruise so badly if he didn’t pull so hard,” Bull explained fondly, and Lavellan mumbled something indistinct into his pillow as if in defence. “But here, look.”

There’s a clever catch in how the straps are attached to the bed, easily within reach even for the one whose hands are restrained, as far as Cullen can see, and when Bull gives the catch a light tug the straps come easily and instantly free.

“He likes to play at being helpless, but isn’t much interested in making it real,” Bull explains.

Lavellan lifts his head from the pillow just far enough to say, “Mage,” in a particularly pointed tone.

Bull tilts his horns in acknowledgement. “That too.”

Cullen feels his lips twitch into something like a smile. What had Cassandra said he’d snarled at her on the mountainside as they made their desperate way up to the initial breach? ‘ _I don’t need a staff to be dangerous_ ’? Every templar’s worst nightmare, this one.

“It isn’t like this very often,” Bull says. “And--obviously--we didn’t plan this out as well as we should have.”

“Rough week,” Lavellan adds in a raspy mumble.

Cullen mulls that over a moment before admitting, “I don’t understand. Is it… punishment?”

“No.” Bull’s voice is firm and absolute, and Cullen can’t deny the… relief he feels, the tiny knot in his chest that begins to loosen. “I’m not interested in making him feel shitty,” Bull continues, “and that’s not something he needs. This is just… eh, I know what we call it in Qunlat, but I don’t know if there’s a word for it in Common. Release, maybe. _Catharsis_. Helps him relax.”

Lavellan certainly seems relaxed at the moment, practically boneless and melting into the mattress save for the grip he still holds on Cullen’s hand and the minute shivers that rack him periodically from head to toe.

Bull soothes him with firm strokes of his hand petting up and down his flank, just exactly the same as he’d done the other night while Cullen argued with Dorian over the accepted rules of chess, and seeing it eases another tiny knot in his chest.

“It’s my job to keep him safe,” Bull rumbles quietly. “Fucked it up this time….”

Lavellan tenses from his boneless state with an unhappy sound of protest and makes a weak, kitten-like attempt to untangle himself from the bedsheets and his own hair.

Bull presses him back down and makes him still. “I shouldn’t get to take you apart if I can’t be trusted to put you back together again,” he says, flatly self-recriminating.

Lavellan huffs like a grumpy kitten. “Bull. Stop it. Trust you, vhenan.”

Bull just sighs and doesn’t look very appeased. “Ah, kadan. Let’s finish getting you taken care of.”

The ointment is a miracle cream, already erasing the lightest of the bruises and fading the darkest as if it had already been days. Cullen is suddenly blushingly aware that Lavellan is… naked, even more so when Bull gently eases him over to lay on his back. He feels himself flush but tries not to let the sight effect him, not what this is about.

Lavellan makes a grumpy noise and bats at Bull’s hands when he tries to put ointment on the finger bruises on his hips, and shies away defensively when Cullen tries to apply some to the bite on his neck.

“Brat,” Bull murmurs with fond affection. “You gotta let him take care of it, boss, or you’re gonna be sweating in that coat of yours while it heals the long way. Those pretty silk tunics you like so much won’t cover it.”

Stubborn, Lavellan just tucks his shoulders up to his ears.

“Alright, boss, you win,” Bull relents with a sigh, “you can keep the rest for now.” He bends his head close to Lavellan’s ear to whisper lowly, “You need to get off?”

Cullen feels his face erupt in blushes, and carefully keeps his eyes away from Lavellan’s cock, half hard against his thigh.

But Lavellan just sighs and nestles deeper into the sheets. “No,” he murmurs vaguely. “I’m alright. And you’ll frighten Cullen.”

“...Is he alright?” Cullen can’t help but whisper anxiously to Bull. He’s never seen Lavellan like this--it might even be endearing if Cullen could just stop worrying, and if Lavellan weren’t still fluctuating so wildly, cozy and sleep-drunk one moment and tense and shivering the next. He still hasn’t let go of Cullen’s hand.

“He’s dropping,” Bull murmurs back. “He got yanked out of his head pretty abruptly, it’s disorienting. He’ll be ok but we have to catch him, take care of him, ease him down more gently this time.”

“My fault,” Cullen surmises, dismayed. He should have knocked. Shouldn’t have jumped to such upsetting conclusions, should have just come back later.

“No,” Bull corrects, gently but firmly. “Mine.”

Cullen frowns at that, and might have argued further, except that Lavellan growls and gives Cullen’s hand a sharp tug.

“Both of you be quiet,” he demands. His eyes pop open and he frowns. “I’m _cold_.”

Cullen was a templar long enough to recognize the sloppy gesture Lavellan attempts with his free hand, and, alarmed, he and Bull both grab his wrist at the same time, thankfully before he can successfully call up a flame.

“Easy, boss!” Bull says. “You’ll set the curtains on fire again.”

Lavellan slants a narrow-eyed glare up at him and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _One_ time….” while Cullen tries not to chuckle.

“Bull, I’m _cold_ ,” Lavellan complains again, reaching up to paw clumsily at the qunari’s chest.

“Alright, I’ve got you,” Bull assures him, but he turns to Cullen. “Come on up on the bed, big guy.”

Somehow, without fully tracking the particulars, Cullen ends up on the bed with a lap full of Inquisitor. He has shed his sword and most of the half-plate he wears when on duty without a second thought--hard to believe it was less than an hour ago he was willing to draw that sword to defend the man in his lap from the one currently building up the fire a short distance away, and yet here he is.

“Cullen,” Lavellan says, blinking up at him as if he is also mildly surprised to find Cullen there, but then he frowns and curls closer. “I’m sorry I used magic on you, Cullen,” he says, and he looks so sincerely upset that Cullen finds himself petting his hair without thinking about it.

“It’s alright,” Cullen begins, but Lavellan shakes his head and presses his face into Cullen’s shirt.

“It isn’t,” he mumbles insistently. “I know you hate it. I just didn’t want you to hurt Bull. He would have let you. He’s ridiculous.”

“I was the one with the sword,” Cullen reminds him archly.

Lavellan just scoffs. Cullen has sparred with Bull, which is a more diplomatic way of saying he has let Bull good-naturedly swing him around a training ring, and the judgement isn’t completely unjust.

“We’ll chalk it up to heightened emotions and a stressful situation, then,” Cullen says. “I’m… sorry I upset you, I….”

Lavellan shrugs lopsidedly. “Sorry we scared you.”

“I… should have knocked.”

A slightly drunken grin. “We should’ve made sure we had ointment ready before we got started.”

“All forgiven then,” Cullen says, striving for a light tone, and Lavellan smiles sweetly up at him.

“He’s really just… the sweetest man,” Lavellan murmurs, and it takes Cullen a moment to understand that he is talking about Bull. “The sweetest and the gentlest….”

It seems such an incongruous thing to say, given Bull’s size and the bruises Cullen had seen with his own eyes, and yet… it completely matches everything Cullen already knows about the Iron Bull, and he feels the last of the tension and the fear in his chest ease.

“Never felt as safe as I do with him,” Lavellan continues, “wouldn’t let anyone else mark me up, I’d set them on fire.” Sighing, he snuggles into Cullen’s chest again, seeming to want to get as close as possible. “Maybe you, if you ever wanted to,” he allows absently. “You protect me so well, Cullen, my Commander.”

“I,” Cullen stammers, eyes wide and completely unsure how to respond.

But Lavellan is no longer paying him any attention, frowning and twisting in the sheets. “Where’s Bull?” he demands. “Bull? Vhenan, I’m _cold_ , where are you?”

“I’m here, kadan,” Bull calls quietly.

As Cullen expected it takes a bit of coordinating to get his horns around the curtains, and the bed suddenly seems much smaller. The horns also mean he can only lie on his back, and he and Cullen end up side by side against the headboard with a cuddly naked elf nestled between them.

Still not satisfied, Lavellan makes grumpy noises at Bull until he starts stroking his big hand over his back, and then sighs in contentment and seems to fall asleep.

Cullen holds his breath, feeling the lingering tension slowly seep out of the mountain of qunari beside him the longer he has his smaller lover in his arms, warm and safe and content.

He’s just trying to figure out a way to extract himself from Lavellan’s shockingly determined embrace when Bull unexpectedly speaks, his deep voice pitched low so as to avoid disturbing Lavellan and rumbling right through Cullen.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I’m sorry?” Cullen stammers. “About… about what…?”

“About what happened to you that triggered all this. What really got you so upset, here. You already knew about all this, between me and him, but _seeing it_ , you thought it was something else, something you’d seen before. Something that had happened to you. And it pissed you off and scared you, to think of it happening to him. Do you want to talk about it?”

“...No,” Cullen answers, making his voice as firm as he can. He does not want to talk about it. No one knows, not even Cassandra. He has put it behind him.

“Alright,” Bull says, gentle and easy. “But, you ever change your mind, I gotcha, big guy.”

“...Thank you.” And he means it, though it is difficult to say. Head bowing instinctively, he focuses on Lavellan, his golden curls and the even cadence of his breath. “I’m sorry I--I know you’re not… cruel.” Not like Meredith. “I just….” He can’t find the words, cannot explain the rush of emotion he’d felt on seeing the bruises, the instant and undeniable instinct to… to _stop_ it.

Bull just nods, apparently content to let that be the last word.

“...I should go,” Cullen says after a moment, feeling awkward and out of place. He has intruded entirely too far on their… intimacies.

“Stay,” Lavellan murmurs against his pillow, and Cullen stares down at him in exasperation.

“I thought you were asleep.”

Lavellan yawns in answer and snuggles a little closer to Cullen’s hip. Cullen has always known how tactile the Inquisitor can be, always quick with a casual touch or embrace--he’s always assumed it was a Dalish thing and endeavored not to let it embarrass him--but now that touchy instinct seems to have been amplified tenfold. “Stay,” he mumbles again, and drops back to sleep.

Bull is watching him with one soft, fond eye, and he chuckles lightly at Cullen’s flustered consternation. “I’ll pry him off you if you really wanna go,” he offers. “But… you _can_ stay, you know. It would make him happy.”

“Well,” Cullen hedges hesitantly. “Perhaps… for a little while longer.” Slowly, he reclines back against the headboard, and Bull smiles at him as if pleased before returning his attention to stroking Lavellan’s back.

It’s warm and it comfortable, and… Lavellan was right. He does feel… safe.

He supposes there isn’t any harm in lingering. Just for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> The bdsm, impact play, and restraint use all happen off screen. There's some bad bdsm practice in that the participants didn't properly prep their aftercare before getting started, and a non-participant accidentally wanders in and gets triggered by bad memories of past abuse from an authority figure associated with what he sees. Everyone does their best to take care of everyone in the end, though.
> 
> My knowledge of bdsm is purely secondhand and theoretical, so please let me know if I missed a tag that should be there, and please leave a kudo or comment!
> 
> Edit: a few people mentioned that the summary was a little off-putting, so I've changed it. Still the same story though, so sorry if this looks like it's new, it isn't.


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